Metal Gear Solid: Radio Drama
by Jorus C'baoth
Summary: A novelization of the non-canon radio drama set after Metal Gear Solid on the PS1. At the moment, I don't know if this will be continued, please read, review, and tell me if you want to see more.


**Chapter 1**

The Basra Republic was a small region, a new political power lying in-between Iraq, Iran and Syria, made up of those dedicated to rebuilding Persia. After taking their small sections of land from each country, they set up armed borders, making sure to keep everyone else out. However, they had a delicate relationship with the West, especially the UN, and airspace was not restricted, just hostile.

The pilot of the UN E-2 Hawkeye that was flying over the Republic was very uneasy. He'd never flown in hostile airspace, but he was certain _this_ was what it felt like. Even though the nation allowed UN aircraft into their airspace, something about the whole thing was just off.

"This is reconnaissance patrol Angel One. Come in, air command. We are currently flying over sector 3 of Basra Republic airspace. No activity noted during our night patrol. Now returning to base. Over."

The co-pilot beside him said nothing. He was new, but not a flying rookie.

The radio clicked. _"Copy that, Angel One. You are now entering enemy airspace. Use Delta Echo to return home, over."_

Delta Echo. Direct East. That meant flying over China, and that wasn't much better than flying over Basra. "Roger, air command. Angel One, out." The pilot reached up and flipped the switch to shut off the radio. "You heard the guy, we're flying Delta Echo tonight," he said to the co-pilot, "set the nav coordinates."

The co-pilot went through the motions and set the coordinates. "Yeah, I know." After, he turned toward the pilot. "Tell me, what's the point of these night recons, anyway? This is a cease-fire zone, nobody's gonna be looking for a fight here."

The pilot shot him a glare. "Would you quit your bitching? You think our guest really wants to hear that?" As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. "Speak of the devil," the pilot muttered under his breath. "It's open, Meryl."

The door opened, and in walked one hell of a beauty. Around five-foot-five with red-brown hair, Meryl Silverburgh was the picture of teenage innocence, although rumors of her involvement in the Shadow Moses incident put a hole in that picture. She wore a skin tight suit, made of something like rubber, and a cloth bandanna, much like the famous Solid Snake. In a hip holster, she wore a .50-caliber Desert Eagle, while another holster afixed to the front of her sneaking suit held one with a ten inch barrel.

She was a soldier, pure and simple.

"What was that about the mission?" she asked, her voice once again suggesting her youth. "I heard everything back there."

The co-pilot's face suddenly turned red. "S-sorry, Meryl!" he stammered out, completely embarrassed. The pilot could only shake his head.

"What did I tell you," the pilot said, practically laughing.

Meryl walked closer to them and leaned forward, so that the co-pilot could see her face. "Don't worry about it, I'm bored as hell, too." Suddenly, the control panel lit up like a christmas tree. "What the hell?"

"Shit!" the pilot snarled. "It's a radar spike, they've locked onto us!"

"Are you kidding me? They're not supposed to have any anti-aircraft radar! It's against the UN resolution!"

The pilot knew all of that. He was already in the middle of switching radio frequencies to contact the Basra Republic. "This is a United Nations peacekeeping patrol aircraft. Your actions are in violation of UN resolution. You are ordered to―" He was cut off suddenly by the incoming missile warning.

"I don't believe it!" the co-pilot screamed. "Missile launched and closing in!"

Meryl whispered, "This is insane..."

The pilot flipped several switches. "Switching to manual control. Meryl," he looked back at her, "better get back in your seat. Hurry!"

"Right," she said as she left the cockpit, slamming the door shut behind her.

The pilot returned his focus on the skies in front of him. "Missile's course?" he asked the co-pilot.

"Incoming at six o'clock. Ready to launch decoy."

"Launch it. I'm jinking us right!"

Pulling the yoke right as hard as he could, the plane followed suit. Hopefully, it would be enough to dodge the missile, but his combat missions during the second Gulf had taught him that might not be the case.

"Missile deflected!" the co-pilot said with some measure of cheer, then the lock-on warning sounded again. "Damn! Second one incoming!"

"Persistent bastards... Launch the second decoy!"

"Launching second decoy! _No!_ Decoy ineffective! The missile's still approaching!"

"God_damn_ it!" The pilot switched the radio back to a friendly frequency. "Mayday, mayday, this is Angel One! We're going down, taking hostile fire! Mayday! This is Angel One, we are taking hostile―"

In that moment, the missile hit the rear of the plane, sending them into a solid nose dive. The control panel's lights flickered on and off, confusing all types of information and making each and every gauge utterly useless.

It took less than a second for the plane to hit the ground, erupting into even more flames.


End file.
